


How Hard True Sorrow Hits

by whitenoise27



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, EVERYONE'S OK IN THE END, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, but not unhappy at least, character death but only in a dream, well... more of a determined ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:49:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27304408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitenoise27/pseuds/whitenoise27
Summary: Jack's insistence that a situation was dangerous just made it more enticing to her, every single time. And there was a thrill to it, of course, but she realized she had never truly believed herself to be in serious danger of losing her life.Until now.
Relationships: Phryne Fisher/Jack Robinson
Comments: 14
Kudos: 58





	How Hard True Sorrow Hits

**Author's Note:**

> I promise I haven't abandoned With Swallows WIngs, I've just had a hard time writing through the existential despair of watching my country slide further and further into a dystopian hellscape. This was actually written ages ago -- it's loosely based on a nightmare I had myself, which I coped with by pushing it onto our favorite detectives. I wasn't going to post it at all until a friend mentioned that she actively seeks out sad!fic sometimes as an emotional catharsis. And if you're gonna post angst, what better time than Whumptober, right? I promise it's not a sad ending: there's enough of that in real life, we don't need it in our escapist fic too.
> 
> Timeline is flexible, but I image this taking place between 3.03 and 3.04. Title is from Shakespeare's Sonnet 120, which I was reminded of while writing this.

_He had told her to stay away. Had warned her that she was getting in over her head. But like every other time, she hadn't listened. Her habit of surviving situations that Jack deemed too dangerous had gone to her head. She had allowed herself to get over-confident, arrogant. She had gone through life believing she was untouchable, that the good guys always won and the bad guys always lost and everything was always alright in the end. Of course if asked, she wouldn't have put it quite like that — after all, it hadn't saved Janey — but how else could she explain her willingness to throw herself into danger time and time again? She certainly didn't have a secret death wish. And yet Jack's insistence that a situation was dangerous just made it more enticing to her, every single time. And there was a thrill to it, of course, but she realized she had never truly believed herself to be in serious danger of losing her life._

_Until now._

_She was a reasonably fast runner, even in heels, but the man chasing her was faster, and her lead on him was rapidly dwindling._

_She recalled Jack’s words after she had nearly been shot during the Latvian anarchist case, almost a year ago — "At this stage, the only benefit of your 'helping hand' is that I might have a walk-up start when it comes to investigating your eventual murder." It looked now like his words were more prescient than she had given him credit for._

_Jack was on his way, but she didn't know how he could stop the man who was chasing her, even if he managed to arrive in time._ Damn _but she hated to prove him right._

_She had loved having a protector, for all that she didn't often need him. So many times Jack had arrived a few short seconds after she had gained the upper hand on the target of their investigations. Welcome back-up, but nothing more. The times she had genuinely needed him were few. But this was turning out to be one of them, and she wasn't sure he'd be able to save the day this time._

_Sweat was pouring down her face, and her legs felt like lead weights. Her lungs burned with every breath. She couldn't keep this up for much longer._

_"Miss Fisher!" The voice was faint, distant, but she would know it anywhere. Hope gave her a new burst of energy. He had made it. He had come._

_"Phryne!" Louder now, more frantic. She put everything she had into keeping her legs moving, into maintaining her lead. She could hear Jack's footsteps now. He was approaching at a tangent, aiming to cut the gunman off. Sensing this, her pursuer increased his speed and took a shot. She winced at the sound, almost stumbled. She managed to keep to her feet, but felt the wind as a second bullet flew past her._

_"Stop!" Jack yelled. "Police!" The suspect took absolutely no notice. Jack was in range to take a shot of his own now, but there were too many people around. He wouldn’t want to risk hitting an innocent. She could barely see him through her swimming vision; she wasn't even sure if he had drawn his own gun._

_Looking to find out had been a mistake. Her ankle twisted in a divot in the road, and she was down._

_"PHRYNE!"_

_Her heart broke at the desperation in his voice. And more so because she knew — she_ knew _— that she was about to die. And she knew what it would do to Jack. She would never forget his face when he had told her, the night Ailsa was arrested, what the thought of her death had done to him. "When I thought it was you in that wreckage… I found it unbearable." And this time it would be worse, because he would have to watch it happen. And he would never forgive himself for failing to prevent it._

_"It's not your fault, Jack," she whispered, willing him to hear, to understand, to_ believe _her. Then she turned and faced the suspect, determined to look her killer in the eye as he shot her. But as the gunman's finger tightened on the trigger, her eyes closed involuntarily. It was a reflex, as if not looking and tensing her muscles would somehow make her impervious to a bullet fired at point blank range._

_She flinched at the crack of the shot, waiting for the burning pain. But it never came. Instead, she heard a grunt and the thud of a body hitting the pavement. Shouts from several different voices, and the sound of footsteps running back the way she and the gunman had come._

_She opened her eyes and scrambled to the man lying a few feet away, his back to her. "Jack!"_ Please be alive, please be alive, please be alive, please. _She had never known fear like this in her life; not when she was in a crashing plane over Madagascar, not when Rene DuBois had followed her to Australia, not when Murdoch Foyle had escaped from prison. Not even a few moments ago when she'd been staring at her own death down the barrel of a gun._

_She grabbed Jack's shoulder and rolled him over onto his back, then let out a choked cry. Blood saturated his clothes, the stain brown in the dark blue of his waistcoat. His eyes were glassy, and he wasn't breathing. Shaking fingers at the base of his jaw found no pulse. A grief like she hadn't felt since Janey disappeared bubbled up and spilled over. "No. No no no no no no." If she said it enough times, maybe it would come true, and he'd start breathing again, and he'd tell her everything was all right. He'd tell her what a fool she was for going after their suspect on her own, and he'd forbid her from ever doing anything so foolhardy again, knowing full well that she wouldn't listen._

_She clung to his body, buried her face in his shoulder, and sobbed uncontrollably._ Damn _him. Damn him and his stupid bloody nobility and his self-sacrifice and his damn need to be the hero. He had taken the bullet that was meant for her, and she couldn't even give him hell for it, because he was dead. She would never have let him, if there had been time. Hell, if circumstances had been different, she would've jumped in front of a bullet meant for him. But now she would never have to. It was too late. She pounded a fist into his chest, carefully avoiding the bullet wound as if it mattered anymore where she hit him. He would never feel it again. "I'm sorry, Jack. I'm so sorry.”_

_Someone was hammering out on the docks, and if she'd had her pistol she would've pulled it out and shot whoever it was. Didn't he know that Jack was dead? That whatever silly project he was working on didn't matter? Had he no respect?_

_The hammering eventually stopped, and she heard a voice. "Miss, are you alright?" The voice was Mr. Butler's, and she had the agonizing realization that she'd have to figure out how to tell him. How to tell Bert and Cec and Mac and Dot. And Hugh. Oh God, Hugh. Apart from Phryne herself, no one was closer to Jack than his loyal constable. And now she'd have to tell him that Jack was dead and it was her fault. Her grip on his body tightened as a fresh wave of grief coupled with guilt threatened to drown her._

A hand at her shoulder finally convinced her to look up from Jack's body. She opened her eyes to Mr. Butler's concerned face. Dot was standing behind him, looking ashen and terrified. Phryne was no longer at the docks; she was in her bedroom, in her bed. The object in her grasp was not a body but a pillow. Her hair, pajamas, and bedsheets were all soaked in a cold sweat. Sunlight was streaming through the open window — a bright and cheerful day mocking the grief and horror that had followed her out of what she was now fervently hoping was nothing more than a dream.

"Miss, are you ill? Should I call Dr. MacMillan?" Dot asked, biting her lip and wringing her hands.

"Jack. Where's Jack?" Phryne's eyes darted around the room, looking for the nearest outfit she could throw on. She was half prepared to rush to City South in her pajamas.

"I imagine the Inspector is at the station," Mr. Butler said. His calm, untroubled voice gave her hope.

"So he's not…" she trailed off, afraid to ask the question. Afraid of what the answer would be.

"Not what, Miss?" Dot asked.

"I have to go." Phryne climbed out of bed and threw on her nearest blouse, then fumbled into a pair of trousers. "I have to see him."

"Perhaps we should telephone him, and ask him to come here, Miss," Mr. Butler said, ever practical. If Phryne hadn't been so agitated, she would've been able to appreciate his sensibility. But she was frantic, and had no time right now for reason.

"No," she simply said, hurrying out the door and stumbling down the stairs.

"Miss, I'm not sure you should be driving right now," Dot said, following. "Please, would you let Bert and Cec take you?"

"No, I have to go _now_."

"What for? You're not even on a case!"

Phryne didn't answer, she just grabbed a coat and ran for her Hispano. Dot followed. Phryne had the presence of mind to warn her companion away. "Dot, this is going to be the fastest I've ever driven. You may want to stay home."

But Dot was already climbing into the car. "No, Miss," she said. "I wish you'd tell me what's wrong, but whatever it is, you shouldn't be facing it alone."

In some corner of her mind that wasn't consumed by her frantic need to see Jack alive and breathing, Phryne was grateful to Dot for that, but proper gratitude would have to wait. She peeled out of the lane behind the house and into the street, and made it to City South in less than half the time it would've taken her if she'd obeyed the traffic laws. After parking the car, she crossed the sidewalk in a few long steps and burst into the station. "Jack!" she called out as soon as she opened the door. She laid eyes on him an instant later, and felt like she could breathe again for the first time since she'd heard the shot that had killed him.

He was standing beside Hugh, casually leaning on the counter. His suit was clean and freshly pressed, with no traces of blood. The knowing, expectant look on his face told her that Mr. Butler had phoned ahead and warned him of her imminent arrival. 

"Miss Fisher," he said by way of greeting. "What is it that—" He stopped short as he realized what a state she was in. "Are you all ri—" That was as far as he got before she pushed her way through the gate, threw her arms around him, and clung. Heedless of the fact that Hugh and Dot were both watching, and that anyone could walk in at any moment, she lay her head against his chest, where she could feel him breathe. Rested her ear over his heart, where she could hear it beating strong and steady. She even managed a small smile when she noticed it quicken slightly.

Jack stood motionless for a few moments, no doubt stunned by her abrupt and unprecedented display of affection, then tentatively returned her hug. "Uhhh…Miss Fisher?"

"Just… give me a moment." She opened her eyes to see Dot's puzzled gaze first on her, then turning up to meet Jack's eyes. Dot gave Jack a slight shake of the head and a baffled look that said, as clearly as if she'd spoken it, "No, I have no idea what this is all about either." She could imagine with perfect clarity the questioning look that Jack must have given Dot to prompt her companion's reaction. Scarcely twenty minutes ago, she'd thought she'd never see that look again. Phryne felt her eyes well up, and then spill over, her relief as overwhelming as her grief had been. He was here, he was alive, it had been nothing more than a bad dream.

She heard two sets of footsteps retreat further into the station, and knew that Hugh and Dot had left them alone. Once they were gone, Jack tried to coax Phryne to look at him, but she couldn’t. Not just yet. "Phryne, you're trembling." She just clung tighter. "You're… are you crying?" She wasn't sure if it was her tears soaking through his shirt or her shaking body that gave it away. She didn't try to deny it, just nodded against his chest. Jack twisted a little, then gently guided her to his office — a task made more difficult by her refusal to release him. Once he had pulled her into the office and closed the door, he finally coaxed her down into the chair in front of his desk, then crouched down beside her. She brushed the wetness away from her eyes and fought to get herself under control.

"You alright?"

She looked up at his eyes, bright and clear if a bit confused, and then down at the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. "Yes, I am now."

"What was all that about?"

She met his eyes again, groped for a way to explain. She was never at a loss for words, but the whole situation, now that the grief and panic and immediate relief had passed, seemed a little silly. "Do you remember when you thought I'd been killed in a car crash?"

His eyes darkened. "I remember."

Phryne took a deep breath. "I had a… I guess it was a dream. A nightmare," she clarified. "But it was so vivid. I thought it was real. You… you…" She stopped. She didn't want to cry again, especially in front of him, so she changed her approach. "I know how you felt. When you thought I'd died."

He had avoided touching her since he convinced her to sit, but now he reached out and placed a gentle hand on her arm. "I'm still here." Echoing her words to him, after he had confessed to the reason he wasn't acting like himself during the Gerty Haynes case.

Except her words had been a dismissal, a brush-off. She had thought he was overreacting, and wanted him to just get over it already. Jack said the words as a reassurance and a promise. An attempt to comfort, not invalidate. She suddenly felt unworthy of this man and his regard. "What did I ever do to deserve you, Jack?" 

"We all must take our punishments, Miss Fisher," he said, a hint of a smile sparking in his eyes. “Even the unjust ones.” He had deliberately misinterpreted her to imply that she deserved better, not worse, than him, just to make her smile. As she felt herself respond exactly the way he had intended, her feeling that she didn't deserve him redoubled.

"You…" She faltered, took a breath. "I know I wasn't as understanding as I could have been, but now… I think you handled it better than I did." She saw, again, the image of his lifeless eyes and blood-stained shirt in her mind. Dreams were normally such fleeting things — there and then gone, remembered with clarity one moment and then forgotten the next. But something told her she wouldn't be free of that image for a long, long time. It would haunt her, possibly for the rest of her life. 

“Hey,” he said softly, sliding his hand down her arm to give her own hand a squeeze, to bring her back into the present. He started to speak again, but was interrupted by a timid knock on the door. A flash of something — regret? — crossed Jack’s face and was gone in an instant. He stood and leaned back against his desk. “Yes?” 

Hugh opened the door like he expected a charging bull to come through it at him. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Sir, Miss, but there’s been a shooting down at the docks, near Bourke Street. They think the gunman’s still there.” 

Phryne didn’t hear Jack’s reply — it was drowned out by the rushing of blood in her ears and the still-too-vivid memory of his body collapsing lifeless to the ground. She had never been much of a believer in prophetic dreams, but she wasn’t entirely a disbeliever, either, and this all felt a little too coincidental. Maybe her dream had been a warning. She had to do something; she had to stop him. She stood abruptly and looked around. Jack was already out of the office and on his way to the door. “Jack, wait!” 

He paused halfway through the process of shrugging into his coat and turned toward her, puzzled. 

“Isn’t there someone else you could send?” she asked. “A sergeant, or…” 

Jack’s expression morphed from confusion to shock to dawning comprehension to sympathy, all in the space of a few seconds. He finished putting on his coat. “Bring the car around, Collins,” he said. “I’ll be there in a moment.” 

“Yes sir.” 

As Hugh disappeared to fetch the car, Jack returned to Phryne’s side. “It happened at the docks, didn’t it? In your nightmare.” 

She breathed deeply, nodded. 

“Phryne, I can’t change who I am any more than you can.” 

“I know. I know. God, Jack, please, just… be careful. I can’t… I couldn’t bear…” If he noticed that her hand on his lapel was clutching a little more tightly than usual — and he would; he was nearly as good a detective as she was — well, who would he tell? “What you felt, then… after the car accident… that’s how I would feel if you…” She looked him in the eyes, pleading, as if she could keep him safe through strength of will alone. 

“Come with us,” he said. 

“What?” 

“I know you’ll end up down there anyway, no matter what I say; if we go together, at least I’ll know where you are, and we can look after each other. And you can be there to protect me.” 

At any other time, this development would have delighted her — Jack was actually inviting her to come with him into danger. Ironically, it was the one time she was seriously considering staying away: he couldn’t take a bullet for her if she wasn’t even there. 

But Jack was right; she wouldn’t last ten minutes before the need to know what was happening would drive her to the scene anyway. And they’d both be safer if they stuck together. It was what they did best. 

“You _are_ completely hopeless without me,” she said with a passable attempt at her usual confidence, and linked her arm through his. 

“Completely,” he agreed. 

As she climbed into the back of the police car and Jack joined Hugh in the front, Phryne kept her eyes on him and mentally prepared herself for what might happen when they arrived. This was no dream, which meant there would be no waking up from the consequences this time. But it also meant that she was in control. Whatever was about to go down, Jack was leaving those docks alive. She would make sure of it.

**Author's Note:**

> Criticism, constructive or otherwise, is always welcome.


End file.
